


We Are Not Innocent

by isengard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e19 Provenance, M/M, jealousy leads to handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isengard/pseuds/isengard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a re-interpretation of events in Provenance.</p><p>“Sometimes I can’t – ” Dean stops, bites down on the words he can never bring himself to say.  “Sometimes I can’t handle it to <em>mean</em> something, Sam.  I can’t think about – whatever this is, what we have.  My head’ll explode.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Not Innocent

“Damnit Dean! Why are you pushing this?”

Dean looks sincerely surprised at his outburst, which only makes him angrier, because he _knows_ , how could he not know?

“Sammy, I - ”

“Forget it! I’m not interested, okay?”

Dean swallows. “You know it’s not about that. We need her. We gotta get that painting, Sam.”

“But – ” Sam chokes back a hundred words that he know won’t help, that he wants to say, but Dean won’t hear them. He settles on, “It’s not right.”

Dean’s mouth quirks in a smile that he should’ve seen coming. “It’s not supposed to be _right_ , just supposed to make you feel good.”

He takes a deep breath; Dean’s doing this on purpose. Every time they get close to talking about it, about the fucked-up arrangement they’ve wordlessly worked out, he pulls this crap. Goads Sam into coming after him by acting like a world-class dick, until they’re fighting about everything, and the point he’d been trying to make is buried under all the shit they dig up.

Well, not this time.

“I know you know what I mean, Dean.”

“I really don’t, Sammy. I assume it has something to do with Jessica, and believe me, I feel like shit for even bringing it up, but if you really can’t let yourself be…be _happy_ , or whatever, at least think about this: people are getting hurt, Sammy, innocent people, and Sarah is the key to stopping it.” He sits back in his chair and shrugs. “I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t that way.”

Sam frowns. “It’s a little bit about Jessica,” he says slowly. “But – Dean, God, you _have_ to know.”

Dean takes a long pull from his beer and gives Sam a deliberately blank look. “Feel free to enlighten me,” he says, bitter, challenging.

Sam stomps out of the room without another word.

 

Of course, Sarah calls, and says that the painting’s been sold, so they have to go back out and try to help the poor bastards who thought it’d look nice on their mantelpiece. They’ve determined the spirit hunts at night, so it’s just a matter of sitting outside Mrs. Lowell’s house, waiting for the sun to go down.

After forty-five minutes of silence, Dean says, “It doesn’t have to mean anything, you know. It can just be – it can just be fun. Easy.”

Sam examines his hands. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s your style, but it’s not mine.”

Dean stares at him and then sighs, “I know it’s not.”

“You know better than anyone,” Sam tells him quietly.

“Sometimes I can’t – ” Dean stops, bites down on the words he can never bring himself to say. “Sometimes I can’t handle it to _mean_ something, Sam. I can’t think about – whatever this is, what we have. My head’ll explode.”

Sam’s fingers track his own pulse on his thigh, tapping out the steady beat, willing it to stay even, willing his heart not to race.

“It means everything with you.” There it is. Dean rubs his palm over his face, not looking at Sam, not looking at anything. “The others – that’s just how I gotta process it, man.”

“I know,” Sam says. “Thanks, though. For saying it.”

“Thanks for coming through,” Dean replies, smiling crookedly, still not looking at him. “I gotta tell you, I’ve never been ignored so hard by a girl in my life. You must’ve got the juice on this one, Sammy.”

Sam laughs. He can’t help it. “You jealous?”

Dean turns in his seat to face him, and his eyes are dark in a way that sends electrical impulses straight to Sam’s groin. “Maybe.”

He smiles ruefully. “Now you know how I feel, like, all the time.”

“Yeah?” Dean wets his lips and leans a little closer, and Sam glances around nervously, checking that the alley they’re parked in is still deserted. “Tell me about it.”

“Tell you about what?” he asks, only a little breathlessly.

Dean’s hand slides up his thigh, digs into his hip roughly. “What you think about, when I’m off with those girls.”

“Dean, I – _oh_ ,” he gasps, as his brother closes the distance between them and licks a hot stripe over the pulse point in his throat.

“I’ll tell you what I think about,” Dean growls against him, jerking his hip forward and shaking his posture loose. “When I think about you going out with this Blake chick. I think about how bad she’s gonna want you, how she’ll push her tits up at you and probably suck your cock on the first date, she’s gonna want you so bad, gonna want your hands on her – and I know you’d give it to her, Sammy, you’d give it to her good, you’d fuck that pretty mouth if she lets you.”

“I’d be thinking about you,” Sam moans, arching into Dean’s touch, fisting his hand in Dean’s shirt. “God, I’d be thinking about you – about your mouth, your hands – I’d come in her mouth, and I’d pretend it was you – ”

“Damn straight,” Dean breathes. He covers Sam’s mouth greedily, licking and sucking and taking, and Sam pours it all out, gives and gives until he’s dizzy and his dick is trying to set a world record for Shameless Jeans-Tenting.

“Is this what you do when I’m out?” Dean murmurs against his lips, palming him through his jeans. Sam thrusts forward helplessly, and feels Dean’s grin as he snaps open the button and tugs his zipper down. “Sit in the motel, all alone, touching yourself, thinking about me?”

A sound between a groan and a snarl forces its way through Sam’s teeth as Dean’s hand slips into his boxers, and he pulls Dean closer, running his teeth along Dean’s bottom lip and tangling his hair between his fingers.

“Think about how I’m touching her hair, licking her tits, touching her between her legs? You think about how I’m getting my dick in her, Sammy? How she moves with me in there – gets her legs up on my shoulders, screams my name – yeah, you know she does, you know how good I give it.” He’s babbling now, fist whipping along Sam’s cock, lips pressed to the hollow of Sam’s throat, and Sam’s eyes are watering, his mouth is hanging open, all he can do is make vague noises of assent. 

“It’s you, Sam,” he says, voice low and wrecked, and Sam is _so close_ – “I don’t love women, I love fucking them – I love fucking them and thinking about you, and knowing you’re thinking about me, and that’s what _I_ think about, when I’m in her bed, and I turn her on her stomach and think of you touching yourself, and _that’s_ when I lose it, Sammy, _that’s_ when I come.”

He enunciates the last few words with slow swipes of his thumb over Sam’s slit, and then Sam’s coming all over his hand, sticky and messy, shaking and practically sobbing with relief.

Dean stays pressed against him, working him through the orgasm, jerking him gently and kissing along his jaw almost tenderly, still muttering all kinds of dirty shit, making Sam’s head swim.

“ _Dean_.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

He pulls back and Sam drags him in for another kiss, no tongues, just lips, but it’s long and fierce and bruising, and it’s better than anything his brain can come up with right now.

Then he tugs Dean’s pants open and takes him in his mouth, tasting the precome that’s already dripped down, enjoying the way it slicks a path for him. He feels Dean’s hand on the back of his head and tightens his cheeks, sucking Dean just how he likes it, wet and slow and deep.

“God damn,” Dean says, and Sam hears his head crack against the window.

When he’s poured himself down Sam’s throat and they’ve cleaned each other up with an old t-shirt, Dean leans across the center console again and rests his head on Sam’s shoulder, uncharacteristically cuddly.

He says, “I fuck girls, and I’m thinking about fucking my little brother.”

And Sam knows it’s wrong, but everything else in their lives is fucked to hell, so why should this be any different? He clasps Dean’s hand in his roughly and says, “I get jealous of my big brother fucking girls, because I want him to be fucking me.”

It’s not what he wants to say. He wants to say, _I love you, it’s okay, it’s you and me, we can take it apart and put it back together, you don’t have to explain, because I know_.

He can’t say those things, because if they could say those kinds of things out loud, they wouldn’t be relying on brutal, efficient hand jobs in the middle of stakeouts to communicate their feelings to one another.

Dean keeps his head on Sam’s shoulder for a while, and Sam doesn’t tell him it feels nice. Their hands stay clasped until it’s cramped and painful, and Dean doesn’t say anything about it, even when the sun finally goes down and they have to let go.


End file.
